Chapter Text
Iwaizumi-san seems like a pretty normal guy.
He’s the mechanic in town; at the shop six days a week. He never rips people off; never takes advantage of their ignorance to carry out unnecessary maintenance that adds heft to a customer’s bill. He’s friendly to patrons, engaging in conversation when prompted but otherwise prefers to keep to himself.
He doesn’t seem like the type to be particularly bothered about material possessions – his auto shop is clean and holds good equipment, but it’s small. His house is just as modest, a pretty but average two-storey home in a suburban neighbourhood. It only has a small yard in the back, but the double-garage attached to the side of the house makes up for it, a car port attached to the door covering the driveway. It’s the garage that holds Iwaizumi’s only luxury item:
A 1977 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, with the original teal paint job and white detailing almost obsessively maintained, its coat waxed and polished to perfection. It’s an absolute boat of a car, far too large for practical use and surely an obscene gas guzzler. Just the most ridiculous thing really, and more than a little bit too ostentatious for its owner.
It’s an endless source of fascination to Kyoutani. He’s never seen anything like it in his life - it’s the kind of thing you’d see in old movies, cruising along desert roads kicking up dust without another soul in sight for miles and miles, not in a quiet suburb like this and certainly nowhere near the shithole Kyoutani grew up in.
He’s never seen it run the whole time he’s been Iwaizumi’s apprentice at the shop, but he can just tell it goes like a dream; can almost imagine the loud, smooth rumble of the engine. In fact, it’s usually hidden away under a protective dust sheet in Iwaizumi-san’s garage, so he’s only ever been able to appraise it a handful of times. Kyoutani hangs around at Iwaizumi’s place quite often, but it’s rare the other man will uncover it and let him look - mostly, he likes to help Kyoutani work on his jeep or his motorcycle under the covered driveway where he usually keeps his truck.
Iwaizumi-san isn’t as normal as he seems, though. He offered Kyoutani an apprenticeship despite his criminal record (Kyoutani thinks maybe even because of it – or at least because he knew that no one else ever would), actually trusted him to sleep in the room above the shop until he could afford his shitty downtown apartment and offered to pay for Kyoutani’s mechanic’s course as an ‘investment’.
Kyoutani hadn’t even thought of pursuing his former career as a petty thief by taking Iwaizumi-san’s shit and running - something told him he was not a guy to cross.
But besides that, opportunities like the one Iwaizumi had given him don’t often come knocking at the door of someone like Kyoutani, so he’d taken it and did his best not to fuck it up. That way, he had the security of somewhere he could sleep, an actual trade he could learn and live off, and someone that maybe, just maybe, he could depend on.
It took Iwaizumi three months to add other things besides a regular mechanic’s education to the curriculum of Kyoutani’s apprenticeship. First, it was how to play poker. After two weeks of absolutely decimating him at the game, Iwaizumi-san taught him how to bluff; how to control his facial expression and emotions; what body language to look out for and how to project false signals. Two months later he taught him how to play blackjack, and another month after that how to count the cards. When he got that down well enough, Iwaizumi had rewarded him by correcting his technique in picking locks and breaking into cars, so he could do it quickly and quietly and ‘not get arrested next time, Kyoutani-- not that there will be a next time’. That wasn’t normal, but Kyoutani knew better than to open his mouth.
Nine months in, Iwaizumi-san taught him misdirection, how to guide the eyes away from where they want to and should be looking, and how to ‘lift’ something (pickpocket or take jewelry someone is actually wearing) without anyone ever noticing.
That particular area of training is still technically ongoing, but Iwaizumi had gone over the rules right when they’d started and the both of them recounted them regularly ever since:
- Never steal from the shop’s customers
- Never steal from friends
- Never lift more than one thing from a person
- Never steal from the same person twice
- Never lift if there’s less than four people in the room
- Abandon the lift if you make a mistake, or if it’s going anything other than textbook
- Do not get caught
Kyoutani had nodded from his position on an overturned crate in the workshop the first time Iwaizumi recounted these rules, wiping his dirty fingers with an equally dirty rag as he spoke. Even though he already knew the answer, in the way lesser predators are always wary of bigger, stronger ones, he couldn’t help but ask:
“What about stealing from you?”
Iwaizumi glanced up, grinned with teeth and responded with a simple “you could try.”
Kyoutani’s shoulders had stiffened of their own volition, even though he knew Iwaizumi wasn’t actually threatening him in any way. He wouldn’t dare cross Iwaizumi, anyways - he was his mentor, and had already given him more than Kyoutani could ever repay. Still, not for the first time, Kyoutani felt glad to be on his good side. He couldn’t say what it was, exactly, but there was something that made him wary of Iwaizumi Hajime. There was more to the man than met the eye.
The gorgeous vintage car he ostensibly never drove. The incredible card-playing skills. The expertise on how to fucking rob people.
Clearly Iwaizumi had a checkered past. Clearly he was here to get away from that - he wouldn’t own an honest, reputable business that was a pillar of a community if people knew his skill set went beyond that of a regular mechanic.
Kyoutani has never asked about it, nor has Iwaizumi ever brought it up. Kyoutani might be a bit difficult socially, but he has good instincts about that kind of thing. Out on the streets, you learn a little something about when to turn a blind eye in order to survive. He knows it’s a sore spot for his mentor, just like the gorgeous Monte Carlo he keeps hidden away is - Kyoutani knows better than most to leave the past of men like Iwaizumi well alone.
It’s probably something to do with the boy in the polaroids, though.
(After all, it’s not like having preservation instincts stops him from being curious. Kyoutani lives by the premise of ‘know your enemy’ and while Iwaizumi isn’t his enemy now - well, that doesn’t mean things won’t go bad later. It’s hard to trust someone completely when people have been so untrustworthy up until now.)
So maybe one day Kyoutani found himself nonchalantly going through the drawers in Iwaizumi’s living room cabinet, and among old letters and random sheets of paper Kyoutani hadn’t the time nor inclination to read, he found a handful of polaroids. Not even enough to be called a stack really, only about five or six photos. They were old, in fairly good condition but with small pinholes in the white border to suggest they’d been stuck to a wall or board at some point.
Iwaizumi was only in one photograph, obviously a good few years younger, stood in the foreground with a cigarette between his lips and a pair of keys held aloft in his hand. There’s a long pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders, belonging to another boy around the same age, eyes clenched shut and teeth bared in an ecstatic grin. Behind the two of them is the Monte Carlo, though it’s barely recognisable as the beauty it is now, parked between other nondescript cars in a car lot and looking pretty worse for wear.
Kyoutani had stared for a moment, for some reason gripped with the picture and the piece of history it held, only giving a second to wonder who could have taken the photo before he slipped it to the back of the small pile in his hand.
The mysterious boy was in every other photograph – in one of them he’s grinning up at the camera in mischief, wearing a thick fur coat and seemingly nothing else, the square shot cutting off once it reached the mid-point of his bare chest; another he’s curled up awkwardly in the back of the Monte Carlo, the leather upholstery old and torn, his brown hair sticking up everywhere as he sleeps, bathed in the sunlight coming through the rear window. Intimate. The others are more candid and less private - the only other one that made an impression was the boy and two others he couldn’t see from the angle, sat on the floor of some kind of shabby apartment, counting a pile of money. Incriminating.
Kyoutani was only half-surprised - not by the suspicious money or the unintentional photographic documentation of the car’s history, but more the focus on the boy. The intimacy of it… He wasn’t just a friend, that much was obvious. Kyoutani hadn’t pegged Iwaizumi as the type to be into other guys, not that it really mattered to him at all. Finished with his snooping, he’d gathered the photos back into a haphazard stack and pushed them back where he’d found them, closing the drawer and laying what he’d just seen to rest.
Like Iwaizumi had said when he’d offered Kyoutani a job and a place to stay: the past is the past. They both had things they didn’t want to talk about. Kyoutani thinks it’s fine to leave that stuff alone - they have each other, now. They can move on from all the shit they’ve been through and continue this simple little life in suburbia.
Or so he thinks.
♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢
Kyoutani wakes with the rising sun every morning. He has a thing with being punctual that he’s never been able to shake, which really means he’s early to anything that’s important - like work - unless he’s being a little shit on purpose. Iwaizumi had given him the responsibility of opening the shop a long time ago, so it’s normal routine to kill the engine of his bike and kick its stand in the yard, unlock the office door and then walk through to the empty, still workshop. His day doesn’t feel started until he inserts the key which draws the shutter door up with a groan and a long, drawn-out rumble. Next in his routine is spending ten minutes trying to get the shitty coffee machine Iwaizumi refuses to replace running and fucking around on the office computer until the rest of the world wakes up. He’s got an incredible high score on solitaire that will forever remain a secret.
He grabs the mail when it gets delivered, lingering behind the door until the old guy has meandered off to avoid human contact before grabbing the stuff from the basket attached below the letterbox. He shuffles through the envelopes, feeling underwhelmed at the usual bills and one of their waiting room magazine subscriptions until he sees a crisp, emerald green envelope amongst the regular white. He picks it out of the pile, dumping everything else on Iwaizumi’s shitheap of a desk, and examines it.
It’s pretty thin, but sturdier than a paper letter - maybe a single piece of card inside - and the envelope itself feels smooth, like good quality stationery. All that’s written on the front is the two characters that make up Iwaizumi’s family name and nothing else. No address, no stamp, so surely couldn’t have been brought with the mailman. Kyoutani knows it isn’t a birthday card, since Iwaizumi’s birthday was in June. Maybe it’s an invite to a party or something. Iwaizumi doesn’t really bother with many friends but he’s a lot more sociable than Kyoutani, and people seem fond of him.
The coffee machine stops hissing and Kyoutani shrugs to himself, throwing the envelope onto the rest of Iwaizumi’s mail and before going to grab his morning fuel.
Iwaizumi walks in just after 8:30, grumbling to himself about something or other before taking off his jacket and hoodie, hanging them on the lopsided coat stand in the corner. Kyoutani’s on the old sofa, flicking through some random housewife magazine Iwaizumi buys for some reason, staying in the office until they get a customer.
It takes Iwaizumi a few minutes to swing by his desk, but only a few seconds to stop dead at the sight of the envelope. Kyoutani looks up at his sudden stillness, and Iwaizumi’s eyes swing over to him without the rest of him moving at all.
“Where did this come from?” he asks calmly, but all of Kyoutani is suddenly on high alert, old survival instincts kicking in. He puts the magazine down and sits up as Iwaizumi continues. “Did you see who brought it?”
Kyoutani knows what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t know why. “It was with the rest of the mail when I got them from the box.” He watches as Iwaizumi reaches out to lift the envelope up, drawing the rough pads of two figures against the characters written in the center before he turns the whole thing one way and then another, examining it. “What is it?”
There’s a look on Iwaizumi’s face that Kyoutani can’t quite decipher - an attempt at a stone cold mask, but with a clenched jaw that could be worry or rage. There’s a look in his eyes that for a second looks almost devastated. He kicks his office chair out so he can sit down on it and sighs, flipping the envelope over to pull at the sealed flap.
“Nothing good,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Kyoutani.
Then Iwaizumi is opening the envelope and Kyoutani stands to move closer and get a better look. His earlier suspicions were right - all that’s inside is a thick, cream piece of card. When it’s free Iwaizumi tosses the green envelope to the side, focussing instead on the golden text embossed into the card. Very high quality. Everything about it is out of place in both Iwaizumi’s hands and the shabby little mechanic’s office.
The pleasure of your presence is requested to join
Daisho Suguru and Yamaka Mika
in the celebration of their marriage.
Accommodation for guests is provided for by the Groom.
Below that is a date, a time and the name of some fancy-sounding hotel Kyoutani has never heard of as he reads over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Kyoutani hasn’t seen many physical invitations in his lifetime (actually, this might be his first), but he thinks there’s usually some kind of slip or contact information for you to RSVP by. There’s no such thing here. Iwaizumi is still sat in his chair, shoulders slumped as he stares at the card.
“Fuck.”
Kyoutani lifts a brow.
“Fuck,” Iwaizumi says again, once more with feeling.
“Okay,” Kyoutani says, feeling a little cautious at the way his boss is acting as he straightens up. “Just don’t go then.”
Iwaizumi actually huffs out a breath that sounds like a poor attempt at a laugh.
“This isn’t the kind of invitation you can turn down,” he says cryptically, flipping the card over to see there’s more writing on the back - this time done by hand, with the same black ink and pristine penmanship that was on the front of the envelope. Kyoutani leans back down, squinting at the words:
Surprise! Long time no see, Iwaizumi-kun, I do hope you’re well. I’m sure you’re happy to hear from me and that you’re looking forward to seeing me and all your old friends! I know that despite the short notice you’ll do everything to be there on the best day of my life. I’ve added a plus one to your name, but I don’t think bringing a lover would go down well, so how about you bring that hoodlum disciple of yours I’ve heard about? See you in three days!!
“‘Hoodlum di--’ What the hell?” Kyoutani asks crossly, snatching the card out of Iwaizumi’s slack grip and holding it in front of his face to glare at the note. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“One of the most dangerous men you’ll ever come across,” Iwaizumi responds, staring off into the distance like he’s just seen a ghost. A second later he’s bolting up from the chair and moving to one of his locked filing cabinets, rifling through his pockets for his keys. “Not the kind of man you ever refuse if you know what’s good for you.”
Kyoutani glances back down at the card in his hands, the luxurious stationery and nice invitation totally at odds with the jovial, thinly-veiled threats on the other side. Iwaizumi has his back to him, rifling through one of the deep metal drawers before pulling out a manila envelope and upending the contents into his palm - a metal ring with a pair of small, nondescript keys attached to it.
Kyoutani feels the familiar fizz of frustration building up in his stomach. He’s so out of the loop here. He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t understand things - something which has been happening less and less lately, which makes the feeling all the worse now.
“So what, you’ve been ordered to go to some asshole’s wedding and I have to go, too?”
Iwaizumi stands up, twisting his neck so he can give Kyoutani his flat, no bullshitting look. “Yes, exactly. Now bring your bike in and close the damn shutter. Then you’re gonna write a sign that says we’re gonna be gone for a week to stick on the door.” Kyoutani stares at him in disbelief and Iwaizumi’s dark eyebrows drop a little. “Now,” he orders.
Iwaizumi doesn’t often take that tone with him, so Kyoutani snaps into action and does as he’s told while Iwaizumi shrugs on his hoodie, then his jacket, and grabs a couple more things from around the room. When Kyoutani is done with his tasks he grabs his own jacket and follows Iwaizumi out the door. His boss locks the door with his own key, checking it twice before he hustles over to his SUV. Once Kyoutani’s inside too he tosses the invitation into his lap and peels out of the lot, heading straight to his own house.
“What, are we going right now?” Kyoutani asks crossly, craning his neck to look out of the back window, where the turning towards downtown and his apartment is. He hasn’t got where he is today by failing to adapt to situations quickly, but still - this is a little sudden for how normal their lives have been the past couple of years.
“Yes,” Iwaizumi-san answers, barely taking the time to flick his blinker on before taking a left-turn a little too fast in the early-morning traffic. “It’s three days from now,” he says, as if he catches Kyoutani’s growing irritation. “That hotel is a day or so’s drive away. I need to grab some stuff on the way-” he pauses as his eyes flicker from side to side, tallying up things Kyoutani can’t fathom “- we need to buy suits.”
“Suits?” is his incredulous response, because really - he’s just gotten some weird, cryptic summons from some apparently dangerous asshole on short notice, and Iwaizumi is fretting about what they’re going to wear?
Iwaizumi throws him another look as he pulls to a stop at the curb in front of his house and kills the engine. “Showing up to an event hosted by Daisho not dressed appropriately can get you killed,” he says sternly, jerking his chin as he opens his door in a gesture for Kyoutani to do the same.
They’re walking into the house by the time Iwaizumi deigns to speak again. “Look, I’ll explain everything once we’re on the road-” he promises, using one of the many mysterious keys he has attached to his loop to unlock a small metal box mounted on the wall in the hall closet. “But right now, we need to get going.”
Swinging the small door open, he reaches into the box and tosses Kyoutani a-- set of keys? He catches them deftly and looks down, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise when he recognises the emblem.
“We’re taking the Chevy?” he asks, unable to stop the wonder in his tone despite how tightly wound the adrenaline has him.
Iwaizumi nods solemnly before slamming the small metal door shut, locking it and stepping back out into the hallway. “Grab a bag and throw in some bottles of water from the fridge, and some snacks that’ll keep on the road.”
Then he’s running upstairs to grab whatever the hell it is he needs, joining Kyoutani in the garage a few minutes later with a duffle bag once they’re both done and he’s locked the house up. He drops the duffel by Kyoutani’s feet before striding over to the covered mass that dominates the majority of the space. Without ceremony he reaches out two hands to grip the dust sheet and yanks.
With a snap and a whooshing sound that cuts through the stagnant air of the garage with the force of Iwaizumi’s tug, the musty fabric flies through the air, catching the sunlight for a second as it ripples. It’s like a moment suspended in time, because any time Kyoutani has seen the Monte Carlo it’s always been by accident, usually by virtue of him showing up unannounced at Iwaizumi’s place while he’s working on it. It feels momentous, having it revealed to him with intent for the first time. And it’s beautiful.
Kyoutani doesn’t move immediately and neither does Iwaizumi, the dust sheet pooled by his feet and still in the clutches of his right hand. They both just take a few moments to stare at the majestic vehicle in front of them, everything still around them as if time really has frozen, the two of them barely breathing. And then Iwaizumi-san is holding his hand out for the keys wordlessly, and Kyoutani almost trips over himself to dig into his pocket and hand them over. His mentor slots the key into the door and unlocks it, swinging it open and flicking the backrest of the front bench seat down so he can access the back. With less care than Kyoutani had imagined he would afford the vintage beauty, Iwaizumi grabs the bags and throws them into the back seat, one after the other.
With that done he pushes the backrest to its rightful place, and hands Kyoutani the keys to his SUV that’s parked out on the street. “Pull it onto the driveway once I’m out,” he says, and Kyoutani drags his eyes away from the eye-catching dark teal and nods, turning to jog out of the garage and down the driveway.
Once he’s settled in the seat of Iwaizumi’s regular ride – a hulking black GMC truck, because apparently he likes big cars – Kyoutani is about to turn the key in the ignition when he hears it:
A low rumble, like an awakening beast, coming from the garage.
It gets louder as the monster rouses, and Kyoutani can only stare through the windshield in awe, hands gripped on the steering wheel as its distinctive bumper and grill comes into view, the car pulling out onto the street as smooth as you like. It sounds even better than Kyoutani had thought it would, and she looks even more beautiful out in the open and under the morning rays than he could have ever imagined. Snapping himself out of his stupor with a shake of his head, Kyoutani starts the SUV, its powerful, new engine sounding completely inconsequential in comparison to the rolling growl of the imposing Chevy so close by, and Kyoutani tries not to draw any comparison between the cars and their drivers as he parks the truck onto Iwaizumi’s driveway.
No words are spoken until they’re well out of town, Iwaizumi eventually easing back into the pristine white leather seat and his grip easing on the steering wheel, one hand falling away completely to rest easy on the gear stick. Despite the tension he’s obviously still feeling, Iwaizumi looks totally at ease driving this car. Like he knows the machine intimately. He’s got the look of a man who’s spent countless hours, days, years driving the same vehicle.
Kyoutani, on the other hand, feels uneasy. The car is all light-coloured upholstery - everything about it just gorgeous - and he feels almost terrified of doing something to somehow ruin it. He’s never sat in a car this old, where you have to crank the window open yourself and the inside lock is a metal rod that you have to pull up and push down manually instead of just pressing the button - even the radio, which is clearly a new upgrade judging by the CD slot, still has the vintage radio function of having to turn a dial to go between channels. He’s never sat on a bench seat in the front of a car - the different position for the gear stick and lack of divide between passenger and driver (you could fit three people up front easy) sets him inexplicably on edge, like he doesn’t actually know where to position himself.
Iwaizumi looks at him out of the corner of his eye and actually chuckles at him, making Kyoutani shoot him a glare in response.
“You can relax, you know. You’re gonna be spending a lot of time in this car, might as well get used to it now. Besides, it’s been through a lot. Nothing you can do to it that hasn’t already been done.”
Kyoutani fights the urge to glance over his shoulder at the backseat to search out for the ghost of the boy who had slept back there so soundly what must have been years ago.
“Sure,” he huffs in response, forcing himself to sink further down the seat, resting his cheek on the door, his temple against the cool glass of the window. “That mean I get to drive it at some point?”
Iwaizumi frowns minutely, fingers tightening where they’re holding the old, wide steering wheel. “No one drives this thing but me,” he says in a mumble, not in a way to shoot Kyoutani down, but almost like his mind’s elsewhere. He’s felt like that since his office this morning - distant. Caught in a different time, maybe. Kyoutani doesn’t respond, just reaches up to the dashboard to grab the invitation that had been flung there to read it one more time.
Long time no see!
- me and all your old friends –
I don’t think bringing a lover would go down well -
Kyoutani, despite what some people may think, isn’t a fucking idiot. Those parts of the note glare out at him. He can put the pieces together. They’re sitting in the car Iwaizumi keeps locked away in his garage, heading out on what’s basically a road trip at the beck and call of some guy that Iwaizumi daren’t refuse – a guy that had clearly never even entertained the idea that Iwaizumi would even try
That past Kyoutani thought they could leave well alone? It’s come back to haunt Iwaizumi, and for whatever reason, Kyoutani is being brought along for the ride.
An hour in, Iwaizumi takes a seemingly random exit off the highway - there’s nothing here, just a bunch of fields and a large clump of trees further behind those. Iwaizumi turns down a dirt road that has no purpose other than dissecting a large patch of nowhere, and drives for what must be around a couple of miles before pulling over at the side.
“C’mon,” is all he says, stepping out of the car without bothering to slam the door shut behind him, and rounding the vehicle. Kyoutani blinks at the landscape around them one last time before inevitably doing what he’s told, joining Iwaizumi at the trunk, raising a brow at the two shovels and the empty duffel he finds there along with the usual road trip supplies, a tool box, a couple of gas cans and the like. Iwaizumi must have loaded the trunk up after Kyoutani had gone to move the truck.
“I think we left the body behind,” Kyoutani quips, rocking on his heels.
Iwaizumi just rolls his eyes, grabbing both the shovels and shoving one of them at Kyoutani’s chest. He doesn’t wait for him as he moves to the old wooden fence surrounding the field beside him, visibly counting posts from the left corner, and walking a few meters down to stop in front of one in particular. Kyoutani’s eyes go back to the corner to follow Iwaizumi’s count, at seven he reaches the one Iwaizumi is standing in front of, resting a hand atop it and nodding to himself. The fence is in clear disrepair, with the connecting slats broken or just fully missing in some parts, and low enough that even when it was new it couldn’t have actually done a good job keeping anything in or out. Not that it particularly matters: the land it surrounds is unkempt, with patches of grass and weeds thick and knee-height, and some patches nothing but hard ground - nothing has grazed or been cultivated here for a long, long time.
Iwaizumi hops over the barrier into the chaos of the field easily, Kyoutani following dutifully and observing Iwaizumi as he counts out paces under his breath. He stops at twenty, looks down at the ground and then around himself before nodding again. “Here,” he says, looking back at Kyoutani before jerking his chin at the ground. They move in unison, Kyoutani rounding on Iwaizumi so they’re facing each other, and they begin to dig.
With the two of them, it doesn’t take long until they strike something other than old, uncultivated dirt. Iwaizumi holds up a hand to signal Kyoutani to stop and he does, joining Iwaizumi in a crouch as the man uses his hand to remove hardened clumps of dirt from the hole, until they can see a patch of shiny navy.
Curiosity builds to a crashing crescendo in Kyoutani’s chest as he watches rough hands reach in to brush more soil away, revealing a handle that Iwaizumi flicks up and pulls, dislodging the lockbox from its earthy prison. It’s not small, about the size to cover the width of Kyoutani’s lap. Iwaizumi sets it down on the uneven surface of the dirt they’d tossed aside, and reaches back down into the hole - there’s another box there, which needs a little more coaxing before it can be pulled out to join its twin. Kyoutani stares at them until Iwaizumi pulls out the keys he’d gotten from the envelope in his office, which are clearly a match for the boxes’ locks, and leans forward as Iwaizumi opens them right there in the middle of the field.
The first contains cash. Like, it’s completely full of cash - bundled up into units of a uniform amount, stacked and lined up like the metal briefcases you see in the fucking movies. Kyoutani hasn’t seen this much money in one place with his own two eyes maybe ever. Iwaizumi runs his fingers across the bundles, fingers gentle and almost reverent for a second before he pulls away suddenly as if burnt, and upends the whole damn thing without ceremony into the empty duffle bag he’d brought over with him. He switches the empty box between them out for the other one, unlocking that one too to show its bounty – the bottom half is cash, arranged in the same way at the other one, but on top of that lies a stack of credit cards held together with a rubber band, and a smattering of-- holy shit, fake passports and IDs. Kyoutani stares at the box, and then drags his gaze up to Iwaizumi.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asks in utter bewilderment, pulling his gaze away from the box to look at Iwaizumi, whose expression is startlingly blank.
The man doesn’t bother to answer him, dumping the contents of the second box into the bag as well before zipping it up in one deft swipe of his arm. He snaps the boxes shut and stacks them one on top of the other, standing up and handing them over to Kyoutani, who is forced to straighten up, too. Once those are tucked in one arm, Iwaizumi hands him the duffel.
“Put the boxes in the trunk, but keep the duffel with the others in the back,” he orders, nodding to the car and not waiting for Kyoutani to respond before he turns back to fill the hole up with the displaced dirt.
Minutes later Kyoutani is sat in the passenger seat, tense from waiting and intrigue, when Iwaizumi finally finishes up, all the equipment stored and trunk shut, sliding into his seat. He doesn’t say anything as he reaches over to the glove compartment, pulling out fucking wet wipes to clean the soil from his hands and under his fingernails. Kyoutani stares as he cleans his hands clinically, cranks the window open so he can toss the balled-up wipes outside, and then starts the car.
He’s still staring ten minutes later when they’re back on the highway, Iwaizumi’s cracked-open window letting in roaring wind and playing with his unruly dark locks.
“Well?” he demands once he can’t take it anymore. He isn’t angry, doesn’t feel betrayed or any of that bullshit, he just can’t stand not being in the know. They don’t keep secrets from each other. That’s their most sacred unspoken rule; one that Iwaizumi had insisted upon.
Iwaizumi glances at him out of the corner of his eye - Kyoutani hates it when he does that - and sighs, turning down the radio he’d switched on once they’d pulled off the dirt road.
“It’s nothing you haven’t put together already,” Iwaizumi-san says, and Kyoutani scoffs because he’s just doing this on purpose, now. The corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth quirks up at that and he shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’m serious. I didn’t bat an eye at your criminal record and offered you a job. I taught you how to play card games and how to cheat. I have a vintage car, despite being a small-time local business owner. I taught you how to pickpocket someone and break ten different types of locks, Kentarou.”
Kyoutani just furrows his brow even more, crossing his arms in front of him and burrowing down into the seat. He knows all of that.
“I know you’ve probably done some investigating of your own, too.”
That has Kyoutani seizing up, eyes seeking out Iwaizumi’s without his permission. For a second he’s expecting retribution, some kind of punishment for his behaviour, before he remembers where he is and who he’s with; registers Iwaizumi’s nonchalant tone and the calm gaze staring back at him. Kyoutani settles back down a little uneasily and Iwaizumi just turns his gaze back onto the road ahead of him, looking unbothered. Projecting calm with his easy question: “what did you see?”
Kyoutani crosses his arms a little more tightly, turning to look out of the passenger window at the scenery whizzing past, and mutters, “polaroids in your cabinet.”
There’s a pause.
“Ah,” Iwaizumi says after a couple of seconds, clearly knowing exactly what he’s talking about.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds in the car the quiet music coming from the radio and the rushing of wind and traffic outside the car. Kyoutani’s still on guard and won’t take his gaze from the world passing by outside.
“I think you know by now how similar we are,” Iwaizumi says to break the silence, and Kyoutani can’t help but immediately turn his head to look at him while he’s being spoken to. “I had a shitty childhood. Eventually realized I was better off without my parents and had to fend for myself, started lifting shit to survive. You know that kind of story already.”
Kyoutani does, because at the basest level it’s the same as his. Kyoutani has always figured that much, though there’s clear differences, just in the way each of them ended up. Iwaizumi isn’t haunted by the same shit Kyoutani is, but Kyoutani knows there’s ghosts there all the same.
“There was this old guy who took care of a few of us, showed us the ropes, then a little later me and some friends split off from the rest and went it alone. Got really good at stealing stuff however we could. Made a lot of money--” He sighs, gripping the steering wheel and Kyoutani feels him press down a little harder on the gas. “It was fucking crazy and amazing for a long time. And then I started thinking about when our luck was gonna run out. We were in pretty deep and I knew eventually it’d be too deep. That shit’s no good for you. Stuff happened and I knew we couldn’t go on forever. So I-- I got out. I took my share of what we had and got out. That’s it.”
That’s not it and they both know it. The secret of the polaroids is out already, and Kyoutani wants to glare at Iwaizumi, but doesn’t dare. There’s a big part of the story missing, and it’s fairly obvious it all centers around the guy in the photos. Neither of them bring it up despite the fact it’s almost tangible in the air between them, dangling right in front of their faces.
Despite wanting to know, Kyoutani has no choice but to respect Iwaizumi’s choice not to talk about that specifically – they’re fairly close, but neither of them are particularly inclined to discuss or express emotions. But even so, Kyoutani can’t leave everything alone - there’s too much that’s being kept in the dark, and Iwaizumi had promised to explain.
“And the asshole on the invite?” Kyoutani prods, nodding at the invite he’d tossed back onto the dashboard earlier.
Iwaizumi glances at the cream card before looking forward again. “Daisho Suguru,” he says, and usually Iwaizumi-san is so straightforward, but lately he’s been projecting all kinds of conflicting emotions that Kyoutani just can’t keep up with.
Apparently, that’s all Iwaizumi’s going to say and suddenly Kyoutani is filled with the irrational but still familiar need to kick at something hard, because he fucking hates saying anything more than is absolutely necessary but Iwaizumi is really making him pull it out of him with more questions. He’s eyeing up the dashboard in consideration before he realises he’d be fucking dead if he took his frustrations out on the interior, no matter what Iwaizumi-san had said earlier.
Impatience bleeds clear through Kyoutani’s tone when he prompts “you said he’s one of the most dangerous men you’d ever come across.” In response, Iwaizumi’s mouth twists as he glances in his mirror and changes lanes.
“I guess you’d call him a gangster. His family has run one of the biggest syndicates in the country for generations. His father died in mysterious circumstances a few years back and he’s been running the show since. He’s a smarmy little fuck but he’s powerful. And manipulative. He likes to play games.” A pause, and then: “I fucking hate him.”
Kyoutani can sympathise - even without the note, this Daisho guy sounds like a complete fucking trashpile. Iwaizumi and Kyoutani are pretty similar: straightforward guys who don’t mince their words or like games, so it’s unsurprising that they dislike exactly the same type of person, a type that seemed to be personified in this mysterious groom.
“He hates me too.”
Kyoutani slides his eyes back to Iwaizumi at that, and that’s as much of a question as he can be bothered to ask at this point. The other picks up on it, though.
“We’ve never gotten along, but we tolerated each other for… business purposes, mostly. There’s no reason to tolerate me anymore.”
“Because you went straight,” Kyoutani replies, not framing it as a question.
Iwaizumi hums. “...Among other things. Not that he’d admit to those, probably.”
They stop a few hours later at a shitty roadside diner, each devouring a burger lunchtime set, and Iwaizumi mainlines coffee with a terrifying nonchalance. They’re back out on the road as soon as possible, and they don’t talk again until the sun has sunk to linger on the horizon behind them, the sky’s vivid streaks of pinks and oranges darkening by the minute.
“For him to invite you to his wedding must mean he wants something,” Kyoutani says quietly, staring up at the roof of the car, at long last at ease in the vehicle that’s getting more familiar with each hour they cruise through.
Iwaizumi hums, and Kyoutani’s familiar enough with the man’s understated ways to know he approves of Kyoutani’s conclusion. He’s always encouraging him to think, to see the bigger picture.
“If he wanted to flaunt the fact he knew where I was and what I was doing, he would have sent a letter, not an invitation. Besides, if that had been it, he would have done that ages ago.”
Kyoutani can see just how uncomfortable Iwaizumi is with the fact this Daisho guy had known where he was all along, even if from the sound of the guy’s apparent influence it maybe wasn’t so surprising.
“It could be two things,” Iwaizumi continues cryptically. One of the first things the elder had taught Kyoutani in his ‘extracurricular’ education was how to look for and read tells - Kyoutani catches the quickfire glance Iwaizumi sends the invitation before his eyes slip back to the road ahead. They’re both thinking about the note. Suddenly Iwaizumi deflates. “Or it could be both.”
As they pass through a town, they drop into a store to pick up extra clothing for the trip, and then a couple hours later they stop for the night at a shitty, shady-looking motel, the neon sign boasting the tacky name of the place flickering in the places it hasn’t died completely.
They don’t talk much after that last conversation. Kyoutani can count on two hands the amount of long, deep conversations he and Iwaizumi have had in the two years they’ve known each other - usually they pick up and drop lines of conversation when they feel like it, content to either do their own thing in each other’s presence or hang out in comfortable silence. They don’t say a word to each other as they prepare to bed down for the night in their twin room. It’s strange, sure, but Kyoutani also doubts he could even sleep in the same room if it were anyone else.
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Kyoutani is up with the sunrise again, and he’s crouched beside the Monte Carlo with his bags at his feet, a shitty vending machine coffee and two cigarettes down when Iwaizumi comes out of the door. Kyoutani hadn’t even thought of grabbing the keys to unlock the car himself, and Iwaizumi says nothing until he’s back from checking out and they’ve loaded the car up.
“Be there in time for lunch,” he says, perched on the end of the large hood of the monstrous car, legs splayed as he takes a drag from his first Lucky Strike of the day, his own coffee cup from the vending machine perched on the shiny teal beside him.
The sight of it had given the reassurance Kyoutani had needed - clearly Iwaizumi isn’t as anal about the car as it would seem on first sight, so he’s slowly touring around the outside of the car, trailing his fingers (still a little hesitant) along its strong, sleek lines. He ends the circuit at the left headlight, tracing around the chrome square fixture surrounding the glass, and nods dutifully at the information.
Iwaizumi flicks the cigarette butt to the cracked, sunbaked asphalt of the parking lot, crushing it under his boot and grabs his coffee. “We’re gonna need to buy those suits when we get there,” he says next, and it sounds like a warning ahead of time. “Nice ones.” Neither of them is the type to care about that kind of thing, so they share a sigh. “Before that though, we gotta fill her up.”
Kyoutani meets Iwaizumi’s gaze over the roof of the car, barely biting back an incredulous-sounding again? Iwaizumi just grins and pats the car affectionately before he climbs in, and Kyoutani rolls his eyes before ducking to slide in too. Obscene gas guzzler was right. Kyoutani thinks that besides it being too conspicuous for someone who wants to lie low, that’s got to be at least part of why Iwaizumi doesn’t drive it often. He’d have burnt through all his stashes of illegal cash by now, surely.
The vacuous, barren land that he’d gotten used to being spread either side of them on their drive starts to evolve into something more habitable as they cruise along. Shrubs and trees begin to pop up in the landscape, getting more and more frequent until they’re joined by houses, which turn into neighborhoods and suburbs. Soon enough, the buildings shoot up into the sky, becoming a city. Not just any city, though - a sin city. Kyoutani has never been here, but he knows the place’s reputation as a den for gamblers, crooks and wild party-goers. They cut through both pleasant and sketchy parts of the outer-limits before they reach the ‘glamour’ of the center, full of strips of bars and casinos and the grand, mammoth hotels that each dominate the scope of Kyoutani’s vision as they cruise past.
When Iwaizumi reaches the hotel he’s looking for he pulls in, joining the valet queue for more distinguished guests without hesitation. People have been stopping to stare at the Monte Carlo as it sails past them on the city streets, and even now in this line of nice cars (and even a damn limo) it still stands out, the prettiest girl at the pageant. Kyoutani cranes his neck to check the sign for the hotel and frowns.
“This isn’t the name on the invite,” he says, because he might not be able to speak French but he can at least vaguely recall its spelling. “I thought they had rooms paid for there.”
Iwaizumi snorts as he makes the car crawl forward a couple meters as the line moves. “There’s no fucking way I’m staying there,” he says, and Kyoutani can’t help but turn at him in his disbelief at the petulant tone. Iwaizumi raises his brows. “It’s his hotel. I don’t want him knowing exactly which room I’m in, and I don’t want to owe him anything.” Kyoutani rolls his eyes and watches as the car two in front of them gets driven away by a valet. “Besides,” Iwaizumi adds as they watch a wrinkly old man and a woman young enough to be his granddaughter climb out of the Porsche in front of them. “He’ll have made sure to reserve us the worst fucking room. I’d rather just pay for something nice on the opposite side of the city.”
“Well, you better be paying for me, too.”
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Getting a bespoke suit fitted is probably one of the worst experiences of Kyoutani’s life up til now, and that’s really saying a lot.
He isn’t really one for the finer things in life (except maybe for cars like Iwaizumi-san’s) so he’s immediately on edge the moment Iwaizumi leads him to an old storefront in the west side of the city. It’s a one-story building, with a wooden front painted green and large windows with gold lettering on them, spelling words like ‘BESPOKE’ and ‘TRADITIONAL’ and other supposedly impressive stuff.
Iwaizumi pushes open the door and there’s an honest-to-god bell that dingles softly as they enter - not a mechanic beep that cuts through the air uncomfortably like he’s used to in the convenience stores back home. From what he can see, there’s not a security camera in sight. Inside is all polished dark wood, with immaculately-dressed mannequins, stacks of fine fabric and rails of ready-to-wear suits. There’s a wall dedicated entirely to silk ties and pocket squares. Kyoutani stops and tries to turn on his heel to get the fuck out but Iwaizumi just shoots him a look, keeping him in place. An old man appears out of nowhere, and stares at Iwaizumi through wire glasses with thick lenses, watery-looking eyes barely blinking for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“Iwaizumi-kun??” the ancient man asks after another long moment and Iwaizumi huffs, smiles a little. The man rears back a step. “I thought you were dead!!” he exclaims, and the small smile drops from Iwaizumi’s face as quick as lightning, replaced with one of his scowls.
He half-turns away to finger at the sleeve of a sleek blazer. “Did he tell you that?” Iwaizumi asks accusingly, and the old man just shrugs in confirmation.
“Well, you know what that boy’s like,” the old man says, gesturing for them to follow him as he moves deeper into the store, through an arched doorway that leads to what looks like some kind of fitting room. “Always so dramatic.”
Kyoutani thinks he hears Iwaizumi sigh before he pulls away from the rack to trail after the stranger.
“You’re here for the wedding, I presume?” the old man continues breezily once they’ve joined him in there, walking around the raised platform in the center of the room. The mirrors that make up the walls multiply him in their reflections, each offering an equally unflattering angle of his small, decrepit form. Old people make Kyoutani uneasy. The man is looking around for something, rifling through his desk and a built-in cubby of shelves in the wall next to it.
Iwaizumi shoves his hands in his pockets as he watches the old tailor putter around. After another couple of minutes Iwaizumi coughs to get his attention, and then gestures at his own neck. The man looks down at himself, feels around his shoulders and exclaims a soft ‘oh!’ as his fingers find the yellow tape measure he has draped around his neck.
“Should have figured there was a broken heart involved,” he says, as if anyone had asked. Kyoutani is too busy watching Iwaizumi wincing to notice that he’s now the focus of the busybody’s attention. “Bit of a downgrade though Iwaizumi-kun, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Anyone would mind him fucking saying - if he means what Kyoutani thinks he does - and he’d growl at him, or something, if he wasn’t speechless at the very insinuation that he and Iwaizumi--
“No,” Iwaizumi says very firmly. “This is Kyoutani. My apprentice.”
The old man leans back and nods. “Oh, I see. Makes a lot more sense. He doesn’t seem your type.” Iwaizumi-san actually looks embarrassed them, dropping his face into his palm, and Kyoutani’s shoulders are drawn up in mortification and the need to seriously maim.
The tailor remains oblivious to the mood of the room, and gestures impatiently at Kyoutani. “Never seen a suit in your life, have you boy?” He asks rhetorically, pulling the tape measure from round his own neck. “He’s just like you were, Iwaizumi-kun.” Aged eyes blink over at Kyoutani before he waves at the podium. “Now up you get.”
Kyoutani never wants to be so near to an old man’s spidery hands ever again.
Getting measured was so uncomfortable that just simply being in the high-class tailors doesn’t bother Kyoutani so much afterwards. Once you’ve had an old man measure your inseam, feeling vaguely out of place is nothing. He can’t feel anything but relief as he sits slumped in an armchair whilst Iwaizumi gets re-measured ‘after such a long time, honestly!’ looking totally at ease. Kyoutani wants to glare, feeling like he’s lost to Iwaizumi yet again despite not even realising they were competing.
The old man sees them out of the store, saying he’ll pick out the cut and fabrics himself as always, as if Iwaizumi and certainly Kyoutani aren’t to be trusted doing so. He grumbles about it being such short notice but then reveals with a fond pat to Iwaizumi’s shoulder that the other suits he’d been commissioned to make for the wedding are finished already, and that he’;; have them done by the end of the next day, ready for the wedding party the following evening.
Then Iwaizumi drags Kyoutani into a fucking old-timey barbershop, where they get a haircut and a clean shave - it had put Kyoutani on edge, that was for sure, but even he couldn’t deny the end result. It still probably wasn’t worth a stranger touching him and holding a blade so close to his throat, though. After that, they finally hit up another diner for much-needed food before returning to their hotel.
Iwaizumi has gotten them separate but connecting rooms, blessedly giving them each their own space for the first time in over a whole day, where they could make the most of the high-quality facilities and catch up on the sleep they’d been deprived of by both the shitty motel and the endless hours on the road.
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Iwaizumi decides Kyoutani needs to polish up on his ‘alternative skills’ the next day, so he spends the morning obsessively going over everything he’s ever taught him, and then making Kyoutani go over everything again himself. They recount their rules at least seven times in half as many hours, and then they’re dressed and out on the strip to do it for real.
Every time Iwaizumi has had Kyoutani practice in the real world it’s been at the local farmer’s market or some random bar or busy event. Every time he successfully lifted something Iwaizumi had made sure it ended up handed into Lost and Found or the authorities (which kind of goes against the whole point, Kyoutani thinks), but today he says that both the tourists and the locals in this place are the certified worst of humanity, so Kyoutani can keep anything he really wants to.
It’s a thrill, he can’t deny that. Stealing stuff had been a fact of his life for so long as a youngster that Kyoutani can’t feel bad about it when he bumps into someone and steals the wallet right from their pocket. And that’s pretty much what he sticks to the small handful of times he goes in for the lift, careful not to overdo it - just the classic phone or wallet taken right from the pocket of an unsuspecting mark.
Iwaizumi had gone over how to remove someone’s jewelry in the past, but it’s clear that’s a technique that requires more skill and confidence than he’s capable of. Iwaizumi can do it, Kyoutani knows, but the other man just stays off to the side where he can see what Kyoutani’s doing. He’s never seen the older man doing any of that stuff aside from the times he’s painstakingly gone over technique in slow motion with Kyoutani when they’ve been alone, and the one memorable instance he’d taken a man’s wallet so quick Kyoutani hadn’t even known he’d got it until Iwaizumi was sitting back and thumbing through it nonchalantly.
Not for the first time, Kyoutani wonders if Iwaizumi’s ever stolen from him without him ever noticing just for the hell of it. It wouldn’t surprise him.
That evening they sit on the floor of Kyoutani’s hotel room, going over the contents of three wallets placed between them and eating the room service they’d ordered as soon as they’d gotten back. They’re examining a set of credit cards when the screen of Iwaizumi’s phone lights up, buzzing repeatedly to signal an incoming call. He leans over to check the caller, freezing at whatever he sees before picking the device up and standing. “I gotta take this,” he says without looking at Kyoutani.
He taps the screen and presses the phone to his ear. “Yo,” he says, and Kyoutani watches as he heads through the open balcony doors, “wondered when I’d be getting a call from you-- Yeah, it’s true.” A pause as he apparently listens to someone on the other end of the line. “I got an invitation, what was I supposed to do?” A derisive snort. “Yeah.” A longer pause and Iwaizumi freezes, listening to the mystery caller despite the fact it’s clearly something he doesn’t want to hear. He turns back around, catches sight of Kyoutani and seems to remember he’s not alone, and heads to the door that connects their rooms. “I figured as much. Yeah.” And then the one-sided conversation is muffled as Iwaizumi shuts the door behind himself for a little more privacy. Kyoutani stares at it for a moment, before shrugging it off and turning back to rifle through the credit cards in his hand. Not his business.
Well, not yet, anyway.
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The next day is the main event of their trip. Blessedly, Iwaizumi leaves Kyoutani to sleep in and entertain himself for the morning and the early afternoon while he goes out to ‘run some errands’ and pick up their suits from the tailor. Kyoutani isn’t sorry to miss out on seeing the creepy old man again, much preferring his schedule of sitting around in his boxers, watching TV and, because Iwaizumi is paying, ordering cereal from room service and sampling the drinks in the minibar. He’s just done with the shower - not enjoying the multi jet function as much as he’d hoped - when Iwaizumi gets back, knocking on the door connecting their rooms.
There’s a stressed set to his mouth when Kyoutani opens it up, and Kyoutani doesn’t know what Iwaizumi’s been doing the past couple of hours; whether it’s the day so far or what’s to come that’s got him in such a mood. He doesn’t bother saying anything - just takes the bags from Iwaizumi’s hands and places them on the bed once the other man has disappeared back behind the door.
He stares for a moment, feeling awkward about how uncomfortable he feels as he stands there with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. He’s never owned a suit before. Hell, he’s never worn one. Never had the occasion to. And suddenly, in the blink of an eye he’d been jerked from his pretty damn okay life into a cross-country jaunt on the whim of some random, obnoxious guy. Iwaizumi, as questionable as he’d always been, was still the most stable, constant figure in his life and now - well, who the fuck knows who he is, really. Kyoutani can’t deny he’s glad that Iwaizumi trusts him enough to reveal so much of his past to him, but at the same time, he’s frustrated, and maybe just a little scared. Things had been fine the way they were, right?
Now Kyoutani is in this strange place, in this strange fucking hotel room that’s far too nice to have someone like him stay in it, about to wear a custom-made suit for some strange, fancy party. His gaze turns into a vicious glare and then he’s shaking his head to force the thoughts out of his head. He’s being a coward.
Decisively, he stalks to the end of the bed, takes the zipper in hand and opens the suit bag, fighting for a moment to unhook the hanger and pull it and the suit attached to it out of its protective covering. The black nylon falls to the floor, and Kyoutani carefully lays the suit out onto the sheets, instead.
It’s amazing. The blazer and matching pants are navy, a deep colour but with a certain lustre that probably speaks of a high-quality fabric. Kyoutani doesn’t know much about nice or expensive clothes; all he knows is that it looks good. He checks behind himself, a little paranoid despite knowing there’s no one around to watch him, before leaning down to stroke a curious hand down one perfectly pressed lapel. It even feels good.
With a little more determination, he unfastens the buttons and flips one half of the jacket back, revealing a smooth and shiny silver lining, the tag for the tailor’s shop stitched into it. He’s going to be wearing this. He has absolutely no desire to know how much this cost, especially to get it done so quickly. He pulls the trousers that had been folded carefully over the bottom rung of the hanger and sets them off to the side carefully. There’s a shirt too of course, crisp white fabric and small, round buttons.
With an absent-minded scratch to his cheek, he resolves to just getting this over with, shucking out of his T-shirt and sweatpants and unbuttoning the dress shirt so he can pull it on. It feels good, but he doesn’t dare look in the mirror just yet. Instead he reaches for the pants, pulling them on and clumsily tucking his shirt into them before fastening them up. He hasn’t worn anything but jeans or sweats (and shop overalls) since school, and it’s kind of weird, but they fit so well that they’re not exactly uncomfortable. They fit perfectly, actually.
He huffs at the thought, because of course they do - they were literally made for him.
He leaves the jacket for now, instead pulling the shoe box closer to him. Inside is a pair of tan leather dress shoes in his size and a pair of brand new socks - apparently one of Iwaizumi’s errands had included him picking up the extra shit they hadn’t thought of. Kyoutani lifts one of the shoes from the box and examines it from different angles as if it’s some weird relic from another world. These are expensive too, he can tell from the smell and feel of the leather. He perches on the end of the bed, mildly concerned about creasing his pants, and pulls on the socks and shoes, surprised by how comfortable they are already. He fastens his laces tightly, fussing over how the bows look for a couple of minutes before he’s satisfied.
For a moment he just sits there, staring down at his own feet and rubbing his hands over his knees, surprised at the fact he isn’t revolting at the whole scenario. Kyoutani has always scoffed at the kind of people who went to such pains for their appearance, spending far too much on clothes and fussing over every detail, but… He thinks he can kind of understand, now. It feels pretty good to be wearing this sort of stuff. He forces himself to stand, smoothing down the front of his shirt before plucking the jacket off the bed, swinging it behind him and sliding his arms through the sleeves. It’s only then that he allows himself to turn towards the full-length mirror opposite the bed.
What he sees there catches him off-guard for sure. It’s still him, the same old reflection he’s always seen - the same hair, the same sharp eyes with dark shadows beneath, the same jawline and yet… It’s a version of himself he’s never seen before. The Kyoutani reflected back at him looks like he has his shit together. It isn’t until now that he’s been able to see the effect of the haircut Iwaizumi had insisted he get a couple of days ago - it’s a lot neater than it normally is and means the precisely-tailored clothes he’s wearing don’t look quite so out of place on him. His body’s exactly the same as it was this morning, of course, but encased in the sleek lines of the expertly-cut suit, he looks and feels more grown up, more like a man than he’s ever felt before.
He can’t help himself from turning this way and that way just slightly, taking the sight of himself in. He doesn’t look as ridiculous as he’d secretly feared. In fact, far from it. He smooths down the blazer with clumsy, rough hands, and feels a thickness in the left pocket; when he reaches inside, his fingers find the lustre of silk, and just like that, inadequacy and apprehension hit him like a wall of ice cold water.
Kyoutani pulls the strip of fabric from his pocket, a rich burgundy color, and stares at it.
He doesn’t know how to fasten a tie.
Why would he ever need to know? When would the situation ever arise that he’d have to learn?
Well, whatever. He can tie his fucking shoe laces. He knows how to take an engine apart and put it back together again, for fuck’s sake. It can’t be rocket science. Flipping his shirt collar up so the starched material obscures the dark skin of his neck, he loops the tie carefully around it and stands in front of the mirror with his jaw set in determination.
The resolve lasts a couple of aborted attempts before he gives up completely.
With a short, hissed curse through gritted teeth, he storms over to the connector door and knocks before he loses his resolve. This isn’t the first time he’s asked Iwaizumi for help and he’s not naive to think it’s anywhere close to the last time, either. There’s minimal shuffling from the other side before Iwaizumi opens up, already dressed in his charcoal slacks but with his white shirt only half-buttoned up. Flint eyes flicker from Kyoutani’s eyes down his frame, before moving back up again. He steps back to pull the door open wider, and Kyoutani takes the wordless invitation. He doesn’t move far into the room though, and immediately beginning to feel awkward as he starts to linger, hands in his trouser pockets.
“That’s a good cut on you,” Iwaizumi says of the suit with a nod of approval, before Kyoutani can even begin to formulate how he’s going to say.
It turns out he doesn’t need to say a word when Iwaizumi steps up to him, his rough fingers taking both ends of the unfastened tie still hanging around Kyoutani’s neck. He doesn’t speak before he begins to work on a knot, and Kyoutani relaxes considerably, his own eyes falling to awkwardly watch Iwaizumi’s hands, too.
This is why he’d taken Iwaizumi’s initial offer of employment; why he chose to stick around and not fuck it up by pulling his usual shit; why he knocked on the door just moments ago. Kyoutani had never been much good with words, even worse with lowering his head or baring his neck. It’s some sort of pride thing, he guesses. Showing weakness and asking for help isn’t something he’s ever been comfortable with, but it’s always felt a little easier with Iwaizumi. In fact, not even once has Iwaizumi ever forced him to ask if he wasn’t comfortable or ready, as a power-play or ego-boost or whatever else. He just seems to get it. Maybe they really are alike.
There’s a soft fwip sound of silk sliding against silk, and Iwaizumi tightens the finished knot before tugging at one of the ends so it fits snugly at the base of Kyoutani’s throat, but not too tight nor too sudden to make it uncomfortable. He frowns as he surveys his work critically for a second, before stepping back with a nod. Without a word, Kyoutani turns towards the mirror mounted on the wall. He flips the collar down and takes a couple more steps closer, to survey the image that’s finally complete.
“You look good, Kentarou.”
Kyoutani had been in his own head a little, eyes on his reflection and fingertips on the smooth burgundy of the tie, but Iwaizumi’s words jerk him out. It’s rare that Iwaizumi’s voice has that soft, proud quality, and even rarer still that the elder man uses his given name. Kyoutani never knows what to do with himself or how he feels when he does – like something in him settles. He cranes his neck to look at the other, and Iwaizumi is watching him calmly as he finishes fastening the remaining open buttons of his own shirt.
It’s encouragement and it’s pride and it’s trust in the casual and honest way Iwaizumi freely hands over to him more often than he deserves. It’s impossible to meet his gaze any longer, so Kyoutani turns his eyes back to his own reflection, slipping his hands back into his pockets to stop their unconscious movements.
As they always are, his emotions are all knotted up with each other, confused and conflicting and suspicious of each other. So he gives himself a moment, stepping over to look out the window, as if the sky above and the city’s monuments to capitalism below can help him sort them all out, isolate them from each other and lock them all away. He listens as Iwaizumi finishes dressing himself and only looks when the movement behind him stops and Iwaizumi speaks again.
“I’ll teach you how to do that, and whatever else when we get home.”
That’s not Iwaizumi’s job. That’s something a father teaches his son, or something a big brother passes down to his younger sibling. It’s not Iwaizumi’s job to take care of him and try to help him conquer his many inadequacies or save him from himself or the messes he gets himself in or teach him things he doesn’t know. It’s much too late for all of that - or at least, that’s what he’d told himself before Iwaizumi involved himself in Kyoutani’s life. He wants to say all this and more - he’s wanted to say this so many times - but just like all the other times, he just turns his eyes to the ground, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets.
Iwaizumi doesn’t need to do any of the stuff he does for Kyoutani, but he does it anyway. And Kyoutani is glad for it.
Kyoutani can’t help the way the words - an offer flung out without an ulterior motive and a calm promise that they can still go back to their peaceful limbo - put him at ease. He doesn’t like change. He doesn’t take to it well. Things had been so stable before all of this that Kyoutani had forgotten what it felt like to be so uncertain.
Glancing back up at Iwaizumi, he sees the charcoal three-piece suit, white shirt and teal tie, sees how he’s dressed up to the nines and clearly comfortable with it, looking like a completely different person, and yet… And yet, he still has that calm, in-control expression Kyoutani has always found himself seeking out for reassurance. Iwaizumi looks completely different, but he also looks the same as always. Suddenly, things feel a lot less unsure.
There’s just something about Iwaizumi that puts him at ease.
They climb into the Monte Carlo and drive across the city, and Kyoutani finally lays his eyes on the hotel that had been written on the invitation currently nestled in Iwaizumi’s inner breast pocket. It’s around the same size as the one Iwaizumi had booked them into, but whereas theirs was a clean, crisp new build, this one looks a little older. It’s not rundown by any stretch - it just has the vibe of somewhere with history, with a class that can’t necessarily be designed or manufactured.
The building is a sandy color and reminds Kyoutani of the European villas you see in holiday brochures or Hollywood films, with large, arched windows on the bottom floor and a grand entrance with arches and pillars and leafy green plants. Twilight is quick approaching, and with the gradually-darkening sky all sorts of lights have been turned on, amongst the plants and onto the sign for the hotel, and around the entrance of the building. The place is bustling with activity that can only be related to the wedding, employees coming and going, guests arriving on foot and by car and lingering in the entryway to smoke and obnoxiously mingle.
“The ceremony already happened,” Iwaizumi says as they pull up into the drive and wait once again to make it to the front of the valet queue. Kyoutani immediately feels relief - he hadn’t been looking forward to sitting through that, and judging by the look on Iwaizumi’s face, he’s glad to be missing out too.
“How d’you know?” he asks, not because he doubts he’s right, but because the invitation hadn’t been so specific on what exactly they’d be attending.
Iwaizumi snorts as they stop in front of the wide steps in front of the grand entrance. “That guy would never want me at his actual wedding,” is all he says before he opens his door and steps out. Kyoutani does the same, and Iwaizumi grins at him over the top of the door. “Plus, just because I don’t mix with this shit anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still have friends that do.” Kyoutani recalls the phone call Iwaizumi had received the day before as he slams his door shut (he feels Iwaizumi’s glare at the treatment of the Chevy as the man hands over his keys to the nervous-looking valet) and wonders who had been on the other end of the line, and if he’ll get to meet them tonight.
He catches up to Iwaizumi halfway up the steps, and Iwaizumi glances at him out of the corner of his eye as they continue to ascend.
“There’s gonna be a lot of obnoxious people here. Obnoxious, powerful, and probably dangerous. So please, no matter what they say, don’t give them any attitude. That means talking shit - don’t give me that look,” Kyoutani scoffs and turns away, because Iwaizumi’s not his damn mother and therefore has no business pointing at him like that. “I mean it. And definitely no fucking fighting, Kentarou. I’d prefer it if we ended the night not dead.”
With that they’re in the lobby, crossing across the gleaming marble floor warmly illuminated by the chandelier above them, and ascending the split staircase in front of them to reach the entrance of the banquet hall. Iwaizumi pulls out the invite and flashes it to one of the pairs of questionable-looking men posted either side of the wide door, who examines it closely and then gestures through the door.
And then they’re inside.
It’s a huge space - though Kyoutani shouldn’t really be surprised, with how large the building itself is. The ceiling is high, the occasional mid-size chandelier dotting its expanse, though their light is dimmer than perhaps they usually are, likely to emphasise the warm, bright uplighting set against the ivory of the wall drapes behind the head table and the dancefloor that spans one half of the room.
The guest seating covers the other half, round tables covered with thick tablecloths of a pale dusky pink, almost rose gold, its embroidery looking like lace. The table settings aren’t upstaged by the grandeur of the room, with gold plates, burgundy napkins and crystal glasses. Candles and an elegant bouquet of cream and dark red flowers act as the centerpiece for each table. A few sets of French doors are evenly spaced out along one wall, open with their soft linen drapes pulled aside, presumably leading to a patio or balcony of some sort.
There’s an honest-to-god live band playing a pleasant piece in the far corner, close to the dancefloor but an acceptable distance away from the tables to create ambience but not hamper any conversation - it’s clear absolutely no expense has been spared for this function. Kyoutani takes all of this in with an awe he tries his hardest to conceal, trailing ever so slightly behind Iwaizumi as he strides across the room.
When Kyoutani manages to tear himself away from their surroundings, he starts to notice the people. They’re all as glamorous and rich-looking as you’d expect, and most of them are too absorbed in either themselves, whatever pretty piece they brought to hang off their arm, or whoever they’re mingling with. Some of them, though - some of them are staring. At Iwaizumi to be more specific, and by extension, Kyoutani.
Kyoutani doesn’t like being stared at. It makes his hackles raise. They pass a man, who’s only really noticeable from the way his long limbs stretch out from where he’s lounged on a chair and from the mess of black hair atop his head, who stares at Iwaizumi, raises a brow and whistles lowly in what looks like disbelief. Iwaizumi ignores him and keeps moving, just like he ignores the other few stares or whispers his presence receives, so Kyoutani just follows his example. No one approaches them, though he can tell some want to. He’s confused as to why, until he spots a man heading straight for them.
The stranger making his way forward is dressed in an impeccable and clearly expensive tux, dark hair in an immaculate side part and swept back. He’s around Kyoutani and Iwaizumi’s height - average - with a slight build: Kyoutani has seen many far more physically-imposing men. And yet-- and yet there’s something about him that’s dangerous, that has Kyoutani’s now usually-dormant survival instincts rearing up. It’s the way he looks completely at ease in the expensive clothes, in the grand events hall, and the way the crowd of people part for him so easily. It’s the way his movement has caught everyone’s attention.
The music doesn’t stop and the murmurings of previous conversations don’t seem to die, but the atmosphere in the room changes - even the people who had been too preoccupied previously are noticing them now. Clearly a lot of people have been waiting for this confrontation. Iwaizumi slows to a stop, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slacks, waiting for the man to make it to them.
Kyoutani knows, without needing anyone to tell him, that this is Daisho Suguru.
“Hajime,” he greets, with the tone and confidence of a man who owns the world around him. His voice is like a dagger wrapped in silk, smooth and welcoming on the surface, but with a danger lurking beneath if you know what to look for. “So glad you could make it. What’s a wedding without all your old acquaintances there to celebrate with you?”
Daisho has the barest of lisps as he speaks, but it doesn’t do anything to harm the vibe he’s projecting. If anything, it makes his narrow-eyed gaze and insincere slit of a smile seem all the more reptilian.
Kyoutani already fucking hates him. Iwaizumi does too - even if he hadn’t already known, then his mentor’s split-second reaction when he was greeted by his given name would have been a clear enough indication for Kyoutani. To Iwaizumi’s credit though, his stance stays easy and relaxed, the line of his shoulders slack and his expression (mostly) impassive.
“Of course. You’d have to be a fool to turn down an invitation from Daisho Suguru,” Iwaizumi replies, and the meaning behind the choice of words is all too clear for anyone in earshot. This isn’t the first time Kyoutani has realised Iwaizumi-san has balls, but it’s the first time he really comes to appreciate how fucking cool it is that he never seems to feel intimidation.
Daisho’s sinister wisp of a smile never falters though, and he just tips his head as if in agreeance with him.
“Why would anyone want to?” he asks - rhetorical question - just the barest flash of white teeth before his head tilts to the other side in a sway that’s almost not human, eyes settling on Kyoutani. This close, he can see that the man’s tux isn’t black like it had first appeared - it’s actually a green so dark it only appears to be black. It’s only when the satin lapels catch the smooth lighting just right that you can tell.
“Ah, the apprentice~” Daisho almost coos, and the hairs on the back of Kyoutani’s neck prickle in annoyance and something else. He doesn’t realise that he’s pulling a face in unconscious response until Daisho’s eyebrows tick upwards minutely before the smirk at his lips curves up a notch. “Oh, when he pulls that face he looks just like a young you, Hajime. Birds of a feather really do flock together, hm?” Kyoutani forces his face to go somewhere closer to blank and Iwaizumi casts him the barest glance before his gaze settles back to Daisho-- back to the threat.
“I heard the ceremony was beautiful,” Iwaizumi says, making conversation but not really seeming sincere. “And that the bride looked breath-taking, and incredibly happy. I hope you’ll pass my congratulations onto Mika-san.”
Daisho cuts a calculating look Iwaizumi’s way for the briefest of moments, before his expression shifts back to his unsettling, placid mask once more. “Only the best for my wife,” he agrees affably, with a casual flap of his hand. “The only person I’m happy to let upstage me.”
Daisho turns his head to look back at the crowd he’d come from, the split he’d made on his approach still there and making the young woman in a form-fitting fishtail gown in the centre visible. Even this far away, it’s clear to see she’s glowing in a way that could only identify her as the bride, laughing freely at one of the people surrounding her. Kyoutani can’t see Daisho’s expression, but the way he pauses for a moment to watch her makes it seem like he forgets what he’s doing, if only for a second.
“I’ll be sure to let her know,” he finishes after another breath, turning back to Iwaizumi and Kyoutani and once more seeming entirely insincere. It’s painfully obvious that the bride will not be receiving Iwaizumi’s well wishes, but Iwaizumi doesn’t look particularly bothered. Daisho’s smirk comes back stretched even wider across his pale face. “Speaking of, I should really get back to her. Wouldn’t want to abandon a loved one, would I? It’s been an absolute pleasure to see you again after all this time Hajime, truly.” The shit-eating smirk Daisho fires Iwaizumi’s way shows that he isn’t even trying to put on airs anymore. He radiates the confidence of a man who can say or do whatever he wants and knows he’s untouchable.
“But I won’t monopolise you - I expect you’ll be able to reconnect with a lot more people tonight,” Daisho turns on the heel of his shiny black shoes without a sound, ready to stroll back over to where he came from any second. Olive green eyes flash over his shoulder as he casts one final glance at Iwaizumi. "I’m sure some of them will be happy to see you, even. Other people might be less pleased, if you know what - or who - I mean.” His tone is jovial, but beneath it Kyoutani can practically hear the knife twisting into the flesh between Iwaizumi’s ribs as Daisho turns away from them once more - words meant to make a point, meant to agitate an old wound or perhaps even make a new one. “Oh and Hajime, try not to cause a scene on my special day.”
That makes Iwaizumi’s expression turn serious, eyes darkening and brow furrowing ever so slightly.
And with that Daisho is gone, a single, jaunty hop to set him on his way before he’s striding smoothly back across the empty dancefloor, chin held high and completely confident under the room’s attention. Kyoutani’s skin feels a smidge too tight for his body.
“Wow, what an ass,” Kyoutani mutters as he watches him go, and it’s really worth his lack of brain-to-mouth filter when he sees the newly-wound tension leave Iwaizumi’s shoulders and hears the man’s snigger.
“That was Daisho being civil,” Iwaizumi tells him with an ironic smile.
Kyoutani’s about to ask what the Hell Daisho meant with his last couple of parting shots, but just as he opens his mouth he feels someone else approach. He turns, taking in mussed, curly hair, sleepy eyes and looming height.
“What the Hell are you doing here?” the newcomer asks Iwaizumi in a deep baritone, and it sounds threatening for all of a second - Kyoutani tensing - before a smile spreads on his mouth and a large hand settles on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, reeling him in. Iwaizumi returns the quick back-slapping hug, before pulling back.
“You’re a welcome fucking sight, Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi responds, sending the tall man a toothy grin, genuinely pleased to see him.
Matsukawa, apparently, huffs, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, how’d you enjoy your chat with the groom? Looked like your ass was getting reamed for a second back there.”
Iwaizumi snorts. “Hardly. Hey, where’s--”
Long arms invade Kyoutani’s peripheral vision before he even registers the presence of an extra person behind him, and then he sees a flash of pale blond/pink and a mischievous grin. “Iwaizumi-kun,” the second newcomer drawls, voice surprisingly low for a man with hair that colour and a grin that wide. The arms that had wrapped Iwaizumi’s neck in an embrace from behind tighten to look suspiciously more like a chokehold, and Iwaizumi looks a little uncomfortable.
“Speak of the devil. Hanamaki, don’t make me toss you to the ground in front of all these people. Daisho just told me not to make a scene,” he says gruffly, and said man pulls back with a laugh, practically dancing around Iwaizumi to half drape himself against Matsukawa.
“Long time no see, Iwaizumi. Even if I did just speak to you on the phone yesterday,” Hanamaki winks and oh - that’s one less mystery for Kyoutani to solve.
Iwaizumi just looks at the two of them for a moment, a small smile on his face. “Man, I missed you two. Nothing like seeing your dumb faces in the flesh, phone calls just don’t express your ridiculousness enough.” The pair grin, throwing up identical, bored-looking peace signs in response, before both sets of eyes sway to Kyoutani. Iwaizumi follows their gaze and huffs.
“Hanamaki, Matsukawa, this is Kyoutani - my apprentice. Kyoutani, these are my two best friends, Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei.”
Matsukawa drags an assessing gaze down Kyoutani from head to toe - meanwhile, a grin spreads across Hanamaki’s face, and suddenly Kyoutani feels a little nervous. Iwaizumi’s best friends. He hadn’t even known Iwaizumi had best friends.
“Apprentice, eh?” Hanamaki asks, pulling away from Matsukawa to take a step closer, stooping and resting his hands on his hips to better study Kyoutani, who tries not to shift his weight under the odd scrutiny. “Looks like a ruffian. Kinda like y-” his eyes slide over to Iwaizumi for a second and has the distinct look of someone in on a joke, before cutting himself off and changing tack, “- heh. Anyways, nice to finally meet you, Kyoutani. You get that watch trick down yet?”
The fucking watch trick. Iwaizumi made it look so easy, distracting and misdirecting a person enough to steal the watch right off their wrist before they even noticed. But even after all this time, Kyoutani just couldn’t ever make the correct moves or unfasten the clasp smooth or quick enough. It’s a real source of frustration for him, and now he’s learning that apparently Iwaizumi not only keeps in touch with his old buddies but also keeps them informed of all his failures. He can’t help the glower he ends up sending Iwaizumi’s way - only realises he’s doing it when the men he’s just met start snickering at him, turns it their way instead.
Matsukawa huffs, but then he’s regarding Iwaizumi again, his expression shifting to something a little more serious. “Still, it’s funny Daisho warned you off. He’s the one who invited you here, anything that happens is his doing.”
“I for one, am expecting something the likes of a nuclear explosion,” Hanamaki cuts in, face suddenly blank even as his hands mime his prediction. “And not in a safe distance away ‘ooh look at that pretty flash and interesting mushroom cloud formation’ way, but in an ‘oh my god I’m blind and my whole body has been incinerated’ kind of way.”
When Kyoutani looks, Iwaizumi is completely sober again, all mirth gone without a trace. “Does he know yet?” he asks, and Kyoutani leans forward ever so slightly in growing curiosity. They aren’t talking about Daisho anymore, so who-?
Matsukawa and Hanamaki glance at each other before giving Iwaizumi near-identical shrugs.
“Well we weren’t gonna be the ones to tell him,” Hanamaki says after their lightning-quick silent conversation. Both of them look like they feel guilty, though Kyoutani has no idea why.
Matsukawa adds, “and he hasn’t been in town the last few days to hear the rumours of you being around, so who knows. I doubt the majority of people would want to spoil the surprise and miss the opportunity to watch the show.” A look of disgust crosses his face as he glances to the strangers that have gone back to milling around and focusing on their own inane conversations. His tone turns even more grave when he returns his gaze to Iwaizumi. “Wanted to tell him, but you know how he loves weddings. And he’s had a nice day - so far, at least.”
Kyoutani is so, so curious, but he doesn’t say a word.
Iwaizumi grimaces, but nods. “Probably for the best. He might have refused to come if he’d known.” And that wouldn’t have been good for whoever they’re talking about, if even Iwaizumi had felt it impossible to refuse Daisho’s invitation. Kyoutani sees an indecision and a worry he’d never seen in Iwaizumi before when the man clenches his jaw and runs a jittery hand through his hair, mumbling a “fuck” under his breath.
“He won’t make a scene - not in front of so many people, anyway. He cares too much about how he looks. Just-- yeah. Probably best to keep this,” he gestures between himself and his two old friends with an unhappy slant to his mouth, “short for now. You’ve already been seen fraternising with the enemy. But I just wanted to-- thanks. For everything.”
Hanamaki and Matsukawa nod, taking turns to slap Iwaizumi on the arm in both acknowledgement and goodbye, and then turn to wander off elsewhere, Hanamaki sending Kyoutani a jaunty wave goodbye that he doesn’t bother to return. Iwaizumi looks tense all over again, and Kyoutani doesn’t think he can dissolve it with a simple comment this time. Is too curious to even try.
“Who were you talking about?” he asks, unable to stop himself now that they’re alone. He’s not particularly worried about how Iwaizumi will react - the other man has always been pretty open with Kyoutani when he’s had questions.
Flint eyes don’t turn to meet his; it’s like Iwaizumi is elsewhere, gaze unfocused as he stares straight ahead, troubled by the weight of whatever he’s been carrying all these years.
“I think you already know,” he answers, despite how far away he seems, voice quiet.
Kyoutani thinks of polaroids hidden away in a drawer, intimate photographs of a brown-haired boy’s smile. He thinks of a lovingly-maintained 1977 Chevrolet Monte Carlo Iwaizumi rarely drives, how he’s felt like an intruder every time he’s sat on the passenger side of the white bench seat, like it belongs to someone else. He thinks of the expression Iwaizumi makes when he drives the Chevy; when certain songs come on the autoshop radio; when he’s having a quiet moment to himself, yet to realise Kyoutani’s around.
And yeah, he knows.
It’s only when the background music tapers off that Kyoutani remembers there’s a band at all. He’s glancing around for the cause when a man steps beside the head table - the only long, rectangular table in the room, set so all those seated will face the rest of the room - and rings a bell to call their attention: “If the guests and wedding party would be so kind as to take their seats, the speeches will begin soon.” He bows to the room, and then pointedly to the Bride and Groom, before retreating back to wherever he came from.
Kyoutani watches people begin to shuffle around them in confusion, before Iwaizumi jerks his head in one direction and then leads Kyoutani over to a table. “There was a diagram by the door,” he explains, and Kyoutani wonders when the fuck Iwaizumi had even noticed that, let alone had the time to study it to find and remember their places.
It’s surprisingly close to the head table considering the obvious contempt Daisho has for Iwaizumi, but Kyoutani can only assume they’re there for a reason. Ahead of him, Iwaizumi is skirting around the edge of the table, studying the place settings, scowl only worsening until he finds their seats, each marked with their own name card. “The table’s full of Daisho’s people, who all hate me almost as much as he does,” he mutters in explanation under his breath as he pulls out his chair.
The tables fill up with surprising speed, all of the guests in the room obedient to the instructions, and Kyoutani guesses that’s as much a statement of Daisho’s power as anything else. Speaking of - he glances up and sure enough, Daisho is sitting at the center of the head table, his beautiful bride by his side, embodying the image of a King presiding over his Court. Kyoutani doesn’t think it’s any mistake that their places mean they’re directly in the man’s line of sight if he turns his face just a little to the left.
He turns to look at Iwaizumi who is lounging back, one arm bent and pulled back so his forearm is resting on the backrest of his chair. Two fingers of his other hand are outstretched to give a couple of absent-minded taps to the cool (genuine) silver of one of the knives set next to his plate. The man looks totally at ease - utterly unbothered by the other men sat around the table sending him looks, some ignoring the pretty girls they’re with to do so. It’s erring between nonchalant and arrogant as a gesture, and Kyoutani knows enough about Iwaizumi to know it’s calculated - a way to show he isn’t intimidated and also an attempt to irritate their company at the table. It’s working.
Kyoutani ducks his head to hide a smirk, smoothing down the material of his pants over his thighs and hoping to hell they won’t crease. The room is full of judging eyes and the last thing he wants is to look like a total jackass.
He knows himself well enough to choose to ignore the looks Iwaizumi (and himself) are getting from these assholes, Iwaizumi’s warnings from before they entered the function room echoing in his head. No attitude. No fighting. That’s a tall order for him in such a high-tension, public setting. He doesn’t really… get along with people.
Kyoutani flicks his eyes back to the head table, really looking at Daisho’s new wife for the first time to distract himself. She’s pretty - Kyoutani’s type, probably. Long brown hair and thick eyelashes and nice collarbones and nice hands, which he notices when she brings one up to brush the bangs out of her eyes, leaning to the side to say something to Daisho. Kyoutani looks at the man again, feeling a prickle shoot up his spine when he meets the man’s narrow-eyed gaze head on.
So no looking at the bride, then. Alright.
He skips his gaze over from Daisho along the line of people sitting at the head table - the people to the Groom’s right are clearly from his ‘organization’; old men with graying hair and hard faces and their wives for company. On the Bride’s side sit what must be her parents, and a surly-looking brother probably around Kyoutani’s age. The father of the Bride looks just like the men sitting on the other end of the table and the mother is wearing an ostentatious hat and jewelry more expensive-looking than the bride’s - they probably have a ‘family business’ of their own.
There’s a movement in the corner of his eye, and Kyoutani lets his gaze wander in that direction to see two men re-entering the room from one of the sets of french doors he’d noticed earlier, the last stragglers. Everyone else is seated now and Kyoutani wouldn’t have thought much of their presence, if not for the fact he somehow feels a sudden change in Iwaizumi beside him as they cross in front of the head table to reach their own on the other side of the room.
It’s as if all the murmuring in the room dies off - and there’s no way that actually happens because that would be crazy but still, something has set Kyoutani’s sixth sense off - and it’s like time stops when he turns to Iwaizumi and sees him frozen, his usually calm gaze fixed where Kyoutani had just been lazily observing. Kyoutani snaps his head back the other way and--
He just knows, before he even realizes, exactly what – or who - he’s looking at. But now he looks at the men properly - well, one of them is still a mystery he isn’t particularly interested in, but there’s absolutely no mistaking the other.
It’s the boy from the photograph.
Well, he’s a man now, obviously. It’s weird, recognising someone he’s never known or even met, seeing him aged a few years - older, but undeniably the same person.
He’s tall, taller than Kyoutani and Iwaizumi most likely, with chocolate hair immaculately styled just the right amount. The kind of good-looking that makes him popular with just about anyone, probably. The kind of guy that Kyoutani doesn’t get along with mostly just on principle alone.
He hasn’t even reached the mid-point of the room - that’s how slowly time is progressing, or maybe how quick Kyoutani is processing. The route to his table shows him in profile to Iwaizumi and Kyoutani, flaunting his high cheekbones and the perfectly smooth slope of his nose. His expression is impassive, collected. Something about him is haughty, like he knows he’s too good for the people around him.
It’s strange. In the polaroids he always seemed to be radiating some brand of happiness - he was overjoyed and excited in the photo where Iwaizumi had just bought the Monte Carlo; gleeful and laughing at something in the one counting money; mischievous in the one where he’s wearing the fur coat; content and safe as he slumbered in the Chevy’s back seat. The photos hadn’t actually felt like snapshots taken in this lifetime when Kyoutani had first seen them and if anything, occasionally remembering them and contemplating them in the years since had mythified them all the more. For some reason, the boy – man – hadn’t felt real. Even now, it’s like Kyoutani’s watching a movie as the man seems to sense their gaze, his chocolate eyes sliding their way. First to Iwaizumi, like his vision is drawn to him by an unforeseen force, then flicking to look at Kyoutani for a cold sliver of a second.
Kyoutani isn’t sure what he expects to happen.
But it’s not for the guy to take a step and freeze for just a fraction of a second, then carry on walking to his own table with a poise as if nothing at all has happened.
Time returns to its normal speed and the noise returns to the room as soon as he continues to move. Kyoutani notices Hanamaki’s blond/pink hair besides where the man takes his seat, and Matsukawa is probably there too, but he’s too distracted by Iwaizumi crushing his napkin in his fist to check. His immediate response is to ask if his mentor is okay, but evidently the little moment wasn’t missed by anybody at their own table, because all eyes are on Iwaizumi. Making sure Iwaizumi’s alright would make the man look weak so Kyoutani doesn’t, instead moving to look back at Daisho. He’s expecting a smug grin or something just as asinine, so he’s taken by surprise when he sees the man resting his jaw on his fist, regarding Iwaizumi with a serious, intense expression.
Then the father of the bride stands, tapping the blunt edge of his knife to his crystal glass, looking far too eager to have the room’s attention now that everyone has taken their seat. The tension breaks, and Kyoutani is suddenly reminded of where he is - in a room surrounded by a sea of people. A hostile environment.
The whole party is predictably unbearable.
The speeches have no honest humour or any poignant moments, every word from each person that speaks is polished, carefully crafted to kiss Daisho’s ass and to create the thin lie that Daisho is a normal, nice guy. He seems to eat it up anyway, relaxed and reclined in his chair like royalty - the only candid moment is when someone (respectfully) praises the blushing bride and Daisho turns to her and smiles, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss it. On the whole it feels more like a choreographed business display than a wedding, even if Mika smiles and blushes and looks blissfully happy when they take to the floor for the first dance. Kyoutani thinks they do love each other, if the occasional look shared between them says anything, but any real personal moments must take place behind closed doors. Daisho doesn’t really the seem the type to show any weakness in front of other people - and Kyoutani knows that for men like him, any kind of positive emotion or affection is exactly that.
Food is served and then the lights are dimmed, people getting up and moving around to dance or blatantly network, and all the while Kyoutani and Iwaizumi stay in their seats. Somewhere along the line Iwaizumi has undone his first couple of shirt buttons and loosened his tie, but Kyoutani doesn’t dare do the same in case they need to get done up again - he’d rather die than have Iwaizumi re-tie or tighten his tie in front of all these people.
They don’t talk to each other. Neither do they acknowledge the obvious: that the whole time, both of their attention is on the brunette Iwaizumi knows. Or used to know.
He sits poised at his table; laughs and claps at all the right times during the speeches; seems to engage in chatter at the table during the meal. He talks to a few people after, when the band starts up again, including the newlywed couple, being one of the few to risk kissing the cheek of the bride and even putting a hand on Daisho’s shoulder. A personal friend, then. Kyoutani stares at them in interest.
Clearly Iwaizumi doesn’t think they’re allowed to leave, so they sit there for a torturously long time until things begin to wind down. The crowd in the room starts to thin out and Kyoutani looks for the guy from earlier, or Matsukawa and Hanamaki even, but can’t find any of them. Iwaizumi gets tenser as the minutes tick on, and Kyoutani isn’t sure if it’s from what happened earlier, or because he’s waiting for some kind of cue for when to leave. Just as it begins to really affect Kyoutani, leaving him restless and agitated, they get their answer. Some rough-looking guy with bags under his eyes approaches them and strangely enough, Iwaizumi’s frame seems to finally even his expression looks bored as fuck.
“Numai, great to see you,” he says in a tone that seems to say that it is actually not great to see him.
The guy - Numai, apparently - looks distinctly unimpressed and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, yeah,” he drawls, not even dignifying either of them with eye contact. “Boss wants you in conference room B downstairs.”
Iwaizumi’s mouth is a grim line, his eyebrows furrowed as he processes. He doesn’t ask why, and Numai doesn’t provide him with any more information - his duty now apparently done, he seems all too happy to turn on his heel and go elsewhere, as if he wants nothing less than to be near them. Kyoutani’s actually pretty surprised that there are so many people that seem to actively dislike Iwaizumi. Distantly, he wonders if it’s the reason he left, or the result of him leaving.
He takes his cue to stand when Iwaizumi does so, and follows him without a word as he leaves the room.
Iwaizumi’s frown only deepens when they clear the threshold on the ballroom, his shoulders back to a tense line as he descends the marble staircase ahead of Kyoutani, jacket swept back so he can slide his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Kyoutani catches up to him when they reach the lobby, not really surprised when Iwaizumi immediately heads down a corridor, clearly knowing exactly where he’s going.
“Is this where the point of the night where we end up dead in a ditch?” he mutters to the older man as they pass the occasional door.
“No,” Iwaizumi answers, stopping in front of a cream door with a golden plaque with a simple ‘B’ on the wall beside it. “From what I hear Daisho much prefers water dumps. The fountain of a rival hotel is much more likely.”
Wow, that’s so reassuring.
Iwaizumi grins and shrugs at Kyoutani, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and then opens the door with absolutely no ceremony.
“--a couple more people,” they hear as soon as it opens. That’s Daisho’s voice - and when the hell had he left the party upstairs? “Oh, and here they are. The stars of the show.”
Kyoutani hadn’t thought that Daisho could sound any more smug, but here he is, proving himself even more of a fucking scumbag that Kyoutani had first thought.
The room is a much smaller version of the cavernous ballroom upstairs, and a lot less grandiose. There’s no shiny floor, or gold embellishments, or mood lighting. Just a decently-sized room, painted in cream with a generic-looking carpet. It’s clearly designed to host much smaller functions, perhaps a multi-table meeting: there are a few of them pushed against the walls sans tablecloths, with most of the chairs in the room stacked up out of the way too.
Daisho himself is leaning back against a table set against the wall opposite the door, and though he’s shucked his jacket somewhere, he still looks put together with his crisp with tuxedo shirt tucked into his pants and his bowtie perfectly tied at his throat. His legs are outstretched, one crossed over the other at the ankle and his hands are in his pockets, making him look totally at ease. He smirks at them from across the room, as if there’s nothing more entertaining than this moment right now. The men stationed either side of him - more as a statement than protection, Kyoutani assumes - simply stare in silence.
It’s then that Kyoutani really registers the fact that there are others in the room, sat in chairs that must have been taken from the stacks, closer to Daisho than the door. Some kind of impromptu meeting then. Heads turn to look as the door shuts behind them with a click and then there’s silence.
Hanamaki and Matsukawa sport shared looks of surprise, faces blank except for widened eyes. The last person in their three-chair cluster finally turns and - well.
There’s no way it was ever going to be anyone else, was there?
Kyoutani feels the curiosity that’s been itching beneath his skin flare up, insistent now.
Sharp brown eyes bore into Iwaizumi, flicker to Kyoutani for a mere few seconds and yet still manage to somehow broadcast absolute distaste before his head swings back around to regard Daisho in a much more dynamic display than the one earlier.
Daisho ignores it all and waves a magnanimous hand at two empty chairs, a clear order for Iwaizumi and Kyoutani to sit. They do. Daisho surveys them with satisfaction, then lifts his chin before anyone can decide to speak and says with gravitas: “now that everyone invited is present--” Matsukawa snorts, kicking his legs out, apparently already at ease and not all bothered by the fact he’s interrupting Daisho Suguru. “More forced than invited, I’d say.”
Daisho’s eye twitches in clear annoyance, but otherwise he doesn’t acknowledge the brazen interruption.
“As you all know, it’s my wedding day,” Kyoutani goes to snort - because no shit, there was no way anyone was gonna miss that with all the spectacle - but a sharp glare from Iwaizumi stops him in his tracks. Daisho continues. “And believe me, I wouldn’t be spending the start of my wedding night with a bunch of guys unless it was of absolute importance.”
Kyoutani, who finally catches up to the fact they’re not about to be murdered, straightens up a little.
“I need something doing,” Daisho says imperiously, examining each of the five men in front of him in turn, “and you’re going to do it for me.” There’s no can you or please, just a clear, precise order. Kyoutani feels his brows furrow of their own volition. Looking around, it’s clear the other men in the room were expecting something like this, even if it’s a surprise to Kyoutani. Now it’s out in the open the atmosphere changes. Iwaizumi tenses up from head to toe. Kyoutani’s eyes flicker his way in alarm, but Iwaizumi’s expression is stony and fixed entirely on Daisho.
“Call it a wedding present, hm?” Daisho says, saccharine, just to stick the knife in further - his eyes are held fast on Iwaizumi’s. “I need you to bring me back something that definitely shouldn’t be in anyone’s possession but mine.”
The fucker’s enjoying this.
Iwaizumi’s hand clenches into a fist on his thigh.
Kyoutani feels himself wind up tighter and tighter, unable to fight the response to the change in Iwaizumi. It sets him on edge. He hasn’t felt this in a long, long time; old instincts kicking back into gear. Just as the atmosphere balloons to the point he’s going to have to say or do something, someone breaks the tension for him.
“Are you serious?” beseeches a voice Kyoutani has never heard before.
His gaze snaps to the side and the tall brunette is standing now, stormy brown gaze focused on Daisho, who flicks his eyes to regard him coolly in return.
“I’m always serious,” Daisho responds, an undercurrent of threat in his smooth tone.
It doesn’t much to deter his challenger, who heaves a breath. “A job? That’s what all this has been about?” Oh, he’s not happy. Angry but not enraged or at risk of losing it. No-- if anything, it’s the kind of anger that runs through your veins and ensures complete and utter control. Hard-edged steel. Kyoutani has seen it in a lot of men, and it only serves to make him tense up further, because he knows what this particular brand of emotion can do. The guy is incensed, body coiled with tension and ready to lash out with precision. “Daisho--”
Said man doesn’t deign to give an answer, just keeps his gaze steady, not reacting. It doesn’t help. The ghost-turned-man lashes out with an arm, pointing directly at Iwaizumi without even turning to look at him.
“He is not one of us,” he hisses with pure disdain, as if Daisho might not be aware of the fact. Kyoutani doesn’t know who he is, not anymore anyway, but he’s surprised Daisho hasn’t made him pay for his attitude already. “And neither is the little street brat he brought with him.”
And Iwaizumi just sits there and takes it. Kyoutani is still taking his cues from the man (always takes his cues from him these days, if he’s honest) so even though his first reaction is to lash out at the insult, he doesn’t. That’s not to say he doesn’t react at all - he can’t help himself turning an imploring gaze Iwaizumi’s way that says do something or let me.
“Don’t mind him, Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi says at his look, his tone calm and his voice clear. Everyone’s heads swing back around to stare at him. Iwaizumi is suddenly back to his facade from upstairs, looking completely unruffled as he sits in his chair, having at some point slunk back down almost to a slouch. “He tends to forget where he came from.”
The glare he gets in return for his comment is both fire and ice - burning hatred and freezing cold disdain. Kyoutani watches, engrossed, as the dual emotions sweep over the man’s whole presence, seeming to adjust his frame into a poise not unlike the one from earlier when he’d spotted them at the party, and yet something about it is altogether more threatening. A loud, ugly burst of a laugh leaves his lips, head tilted back in gross exaggeration.
“Says the man who turned his back on everything,” is the scathing reply.
Iwaizumi’s jaw ticks.
Iwaizumi’s whoever turns to face the two of them then, takes a couple of steps so he’s almost level with Matsukawa - who sits to attention like he thinks he might have to intervene - and then rests his hands on his hips.
“You’re nothing to anyone in this room, Hajime.” The way he says Iwaizumi’s given name is the strangest thing. The first syllable is held just a fraction of a second too long, making it sound slightly mocking, but Kyoutani doesn’t think it’s intentional. It’s a name this man this man has spoken many times before, but perhaps never in the cold, distasteful tone he’s attempting to use just now. “Besides maybe the kid you brought along with you.”
His face is cold, cold, cold; not a glimmer of that rage there anymore. Kyoutani glances over to Daisho, but the man is still in the same relaxed position as before, observing with a neutral expression, happy to let this proceed how it may, like this was part of his plan all along. Then he can’t help but let his gaze get pulled back in to the stranger that Kyoutani thought he’d never ever meet: he’s fascinated - and yeah, maybe a little uneasy. It’s just pure disdain that the man broadcasts now, as his fine features twist into a sneer.
“You’ve brought a ghost back to this town,” the brunette says, casting a cursory glance back to Daisho to show whom he’s talking to. Then sharp eyes cut back to Iwaizumi, almost like he’s pinning him to the chair with only his gaze. “Because you’re sure as Hell dead to all of us.”
Iwaizumi twitches, and Kyoutani looks to see that Iwaizumi’s gaze is meeting the other’s head on. Something tells Kyoutani he’s not as controlled as he was before at the harsh words.
Apparently the other guy knows that too, because he goes in for the kill.
“A wasted invitation. You thought he could do a job for you, Daisho? The guy who ran off to play at being a model citizen?” Eyes flashing in the bright lighting of the room. “Bet you can’t do shit anymore.”
Iwaizumi is a man of skill. He has many. And if there’s one thing Kyoutani knows gets Iwaizumi fired up, it’s someone going for his pride, calling his abilities into question. Seems like no one knows that better than the boy that was there as he learned them; honed them. And he knows he’s got him, because a savage grin comes to his face the second before Iwaizumi slowly stands up from his chair, sliding his hands into his pant pockets as he takes a few steps forward.
“What? You don’t like that? You’re the one that threw it all away. You’re a coward.”
There’s no way that Iwaizumi is a coward. Kyoutani doesn’t know exactly what went down, but he’s got a lot more pieces to the puzzle than he had before that fucking envelope had ever found its way into his hands just a few short days ago by now. He’s not sure it’s worth the discovery for how much it’s threatening their peaceful existence.
Kyoutani can tell Iwaizumi isn’t looking for a fight, so he’s not surprised when the man stops a few paces from the man gunning for him and instead turns to Daisho.
“I came here on your request Daisho,” he says calmly, and Daisho tilts his head to the side, like he can’t possibly fathom what Iwaizumi might want to say to him, especially because it’s starting to sound like a refusal. And it is. “A show of good faith -” Kyoutani thinks back to that morning in the autoshop’s office, and Iwaizumi saying that Daisho’s not the kind of man you ever refuse if you know what’s good for you and wants to roll his eyes “-I didn’t come here for a job, or to get dragged back into this. You know what my answer is.” And then it hits him. Kyoutani all of a sudden realises that holy shit, he recognises this blank expression Iwaizumi’s sporting. It’s his poker face. Iwaizumi’s bluffing. He’s trying to get them out of here now; trying to get them out of here unscathed.
Flint eyes flicker back over to the man just a couple of paces away from him by now.
“The best thing I ever did was leave this fucking town,” he says, some savagery in his tone. “The last thing I ever wanted was to come back.”
Now, Iwaizumi is a fantastic poker player. He’s a good bluffer. He’s got to be, to fool the man who had known him best for such a long time. Kyoutani watches as the handsome, scornful face of the man from the photographs crumples in all the ugly emotions Kyoutani knows all too well: rage, disappointment, betrayal.
But that man isn’t the one who knows Iwaizumi best anymore. Kyoutani stays sitting in his chair, probably the only one who noticed Iwaizumi’s tell.
Poker 101: there’s no such thing as a perfect liar. If someone’s faking, there’s always a way to tell. It took Kyoutani a long time to notice Iwaizumi’s, but he knows it now. And Iwaizumi just lied through his fucking teeth.
Not that it matters, because the lie has done its job in pushing the other’s buttons, a petty retaliation, and the golden watch on the angry brunette wrist glints in the light as he throws a punch that Iwaizumi must expect but doesn’t dodge. The fist connects with a sickening crack, turning Iwaizumi’s face and torso with the force of it. Kyoutani is standing before he knows it, but a stern glance from Iwaizumi pins him to the spot, leaving him to watch.
Daisho hasn’t reacted - or at least doesn’t until Iwaizumi spits blood at the carpet near his shiny shoes. Not that anyone really seems to care about Daisho’s disgust.
Hanamaki’s hovering, face concerned and placating hands held up. Matsukawa looks a second away from stepping in.
“Oikawa,” the tall man says, his tone heavy with the appeal laced into the words. Said man turns to glance back at Matsukawa, and for a second he seems to settle somewhat, but then he’s looking back at Iwaizumi and it’s like that tiny moment never even happened.
Oikawa. Finally a name to the face -
“Who the Hell do you think you are?” Oikawa snaps at Iwaizumi, who’s still frozen. He grabs at the lapel of Iwaizumi’s brand-new suit, yanking him forward. Kyoutani surges forward a step, but remembers Iwaizumi’s silent reproach from moments earlier and stops himself. Still, his shoulders heave with the effort of getting breath to his lungs past the panic of a threat to the one person in his life who’s ever been kind to him. A snarl passes his lips.
Iwaizumi glances over to look at him once more, probably to check he’s alright. Kyoutani can’t see anything but the blood at the man’s mouth.
Oikawa is incensed, and he swings to land another hit, but before it can make contact Iwaizumi moves, body twisting and jacket flapping as he grabs at Oikawa’s outstretched arm to stop him, and holy shit, he’s not just intercepting a punch and restraining the man’s arm – even if he’s moving lightning-fast, faster than he’s ever seen Iwaizumi move, Kyoutani knows those movements.
It all happens over a period of a few seconds, and then Iwaizumi in stepping back with a golden watch dangling from the fingers of his raised hands.
There’s a moment of quiet, just the soft sounds of the watch as it swings through the air.
Oikawa has a face like murder, and savagely brushes off the hand Hanamaki rests on his shoulder.
“Give that back,” he says, voice too steady to be anything but dangerous, enunciating each word with too much forced control. Both Matsukawa and Hanamaki wrap an arm around him, tugging him back before he can lash out again, which he looks about one second away from doing.
And then Daisho laughs.
He laughs like he’s just watched the comedy of the fucking century, adding a couple of lazy claps for emphasis. It kills the tension with just how jarring it is in the situation. “Looks like he can still lift just fine, Oikawa,” he comments, returning Oikawa’s savage glare with a calm look of his own.
“Iwaizumi,” he says then, the lilt to his tone almost like he’s about to attempt to reason with a child. Iwaizumi’s expression is grim even as he rolls his eyes, and then he tosses the watch back to Oikawa, who catches it with one hand with an ease that looks to come naturally. His face screams contempt.
Everyone waits until another couple of moments, and then: “unlike your invitation today, Iwaizumi, this is not a request.” Daisho stands as he speaks, then takes a few casual steps forward so that he’s between the two men who’d just caused such a spectacular scene. The hair on the back of Kyoutani’s neck stands on end at the tone of his voice and the cold glint in his eyes. He surveys each of them in turn, and then continues to walk, stopping when he’s right in front of Kyoutani. “Not for any of you.”
Kyoutani eyes him warily, but Daisho merely glances back at Iwaizumi to check the message has been received. By the look on Iwaizumi-san’s face it has been, loud and clear. The expression of Daisho’s face appears satisfied, and then he’s tipping his head towards the door. When he starts towards it, the two men that had been flanking him earlier move to do the same now, dutifully following him.
The man’s pale hand is on the polished brass doorknob when he pauses. “This is of the utmost importance to me, and you will get me what I want. You know I’ll be more than fair with my compensation for your hard work. We’ll discuss the details the day after tomorrow.”
The door is opened, Daisho stepping across the threshold, and Kyoutani thinks this shitty day is finally over, when--
“Oh, and Iwaizumi? Check out of that fucking shithole and into my hotel or I’ll arrange for someone to make you.”
And then he’s gone.
“Soooo,” Hanamaki drags out after a loaded snatch of moments, crossing his arms behind his head and surveying those of them left out of the room. “Now seems as good a time as any for some family counselli--”
“Over my dead body,” Oikawa sneers, not even affording Iwaizumi or Kyoutani a glance as he storms out of the room, bloodied knuckles stretched tight as he clenches the golden watch in his grip. The door slams behind him.
Then silence.
“Well, that was awful,” Hanamaki announces.
Iwaizumi winces as he presses two fingers to the tender flesh at the corner of his mouth, pulling the digits back to stare at the blood smeared on their tips.
“He shouldn’t be alone,” is all he says, voice devoid of anything as he nods towards the closed door. Hanamaki looks like he wants to say something, but Matsukawa just nods and pulls the other along with him as he leaves the room to follow after Oikawa.